Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 7

  Who made us all for happiness and love,

  Infinite happiness, infinite love,

  Partakers of his own eternity.”

  Solemn and slow the reverend Priest replied, 515

  “Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven

  Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles

  On one fore-doom’d to misery; for so doom’d

  Is that deluded one, who, of the mass

  Unheeding, and the Church’s saving power, 520

  Deems nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well!

  Brethren, I would propose this woman try

  The holy ordeal. Let her, bound and search’d,

  Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal’d

  Some holy relic so profaned, be cast 525

  In some deep pond; there if she float, no doubt

  The fiend upholds, but if at once she sink,

  It is a sign that Providence displays

  Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk

  Blindfold and bare o’er ploughshares heated red, 530

  And o’er these past her naked arm immerse

  In scalding water. If from these she come

  Unhurt, to holy father of the church,

  Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause 534

  For judgement: and this Chief, the Son of Orleans,

  Who comes to vouch the royal person known

  By her miraculous power, shall pass with her

  The sacred trial.”

  “Grace of God!” exclaim’d

  The astonish’d Bastard; “plunge me in the pool,

  O’er red-hot ploughshares make me skip to please

  Your dotard fancies! Fathers of the church, 541

  Where is your gravity? what! elder-like

  Would ye this fairer than Susannah eye?

  Ye call for ordeals; and I too demand

  The noblest ordeal, on the English host 545

  By victory to approve her mission sent

  From favouring Heaven. To the Pope refer

  For judgement! Know ye not that France even now

  Stands tottering on destruction!”

  Starting then

  With a wild look, the mission’d Maid exclaim’d,

  “The sword of God is here! the grave shall speak

  To manifest me!”

  Even as she spake,

  A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb 553

  Beside her: and within that house of death

  A sound of arms was heard, as if below 555

  A warrior buried in his armour, stirr’d.

  “Hear ye?” the Damsel cried; “these are the

  arms

  Which shall flash terror o’er the hostile host.

  These, in the presence of our Lord the King,

  And of the assembled people, I will take 560

  Here from the sepulchre, where many an age,

  They, incorruptible, have lain conceal’d,

  For me reserved, the Delegate of Heaven.”

  Recovering from amaze, the Priest replied:

  “Thou art indeed the Delegate of Heaven! 565

  What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform.

  We ratify thy mission. Go in peace.”

  JOAN OF ARC. THE FOURTH BOOK.

  THE feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round,

  And in the assembled court the minstrel harp’d

  A song of other days. Sudden they heard

  The horn’s loud blast. “This is no time for cares;

  Feast ye the messenger without!” cried Charles, 5

  “Enough hath of the wearying day been given

  To the public weal.”

  Obedient to the King

  The guard invites the way-worn messenger.

  “Nay, I will see the monarch,” he replied,

  “And he must hear my tidings; duty-urged, 10

  I have for many a long league hasten’d on,

  Not thus to be repell’d.” Then with strong arm

  Removing him who barr’d his onward way,

  The hall he enter’d.

  “King of France! I come

  From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid 15

  Demanding for her gallant garrison,

  Faithful to thee, though thinn’d in many a fight,

  And now sore pressed by want. Rouse thou thyself,

  And with the spirit that becomes a King

  Responsive to his people’s loyalty, 20

  Bring succour to the brave who in thy cause

  Abide the extremity of war.”

  He said,

  And from the hall departing, in amaze

  At his audacious bearing left the court.

  The King exclaim’d, “But little need to send 25

  Quick succour to this gallant garrison,

  If to the English half so firm a front

  They bear in battle!”

  “In the field, my liege,”

  Dunois replied, “yon Knight hath serv’d thee well.

  Him have I seen the foremost of the fight, 30

  Wielding so manfully his battle-axe,

  That wheresoe’er he turn’d, the affrighted foe

  Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,

  Desperate of safety. I do marvel much

  That he is here: Orleans must be hard press’d 35

  To send the bravest of her garrison,

  On such commission.”

  Swift the Maid exclaim’d,

  “I tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves

  Shall never raise their yells of victory!

  The will of God defends those fated walls, 40

  And resting in full faith on that high will,

  I mock their efforts. But the night draws on;

  Retire we to repose. To-morrow’s sun,

  Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,

  Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age 45

  There for this great emergency reserved.”

  She said, and rising from the board, retired.

  Meantime the herald’s brazen voice proclaim’d

  Coming solemnity, and far and wide

  Spread the glad tidings. Then all labour ceased; 50

  The ploughman from the unfinish’d furrow hastes;

  The armourer’s anvil beats no more the din

  Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets

  The buzz of asking wonder hums along.

  On to St. Katharine’s sacred fane they go; 55

  The holy fathers with the imaged cross

  Leading the long procession. Next, as one

  Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings,

  And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,

  The Monarch pass’d, and by his side the Maid; 60

  Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,

  Wistless that every eye on her was bent,

  With stately step she moved; her labouring soul

  To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round

  With a full eye, that of the circling throng 65

  And of the visible world unseeing, seem’d

  Fix’d upon objects seen by none beside.

  Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came

  Pre-eminent. He, nerving his young frame

  With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff, 70

  And plunging in the river’s full-swoln stream,

  Stemm’d with broad breast its current; so his form,

  Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,

  Tower’d above the throng effeminate.

  No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs 75

  Effaced the hauberk’s honourable marks;

  His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints

  Many and deep; upon his pictured shield

  F %.

  A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,

  Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage, 80

  Assail’d the huntsman. Tre
mouille followed them,

  Proud of the favour of a Prince who seem’d

  Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he

  In arms with azure and with gold anneal’d,

  Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade 85

  Defaced, nor e’er with hostile blood distain’d;

  Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,

  Gay lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn

  Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry

  Of mimic warfare. After him there came 90

  A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport

  In the sunbeam of favour, insects sprung

  From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,

  The foul corruption-gender’d swarm of state.

  As o’er some flowery field the busy bees 95

  Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,

  A grateful music to the traveller, t

  Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree

  Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound

  Of many waters down some far-off steep 100

  Holding their endless course, the murmur rose

  Of admiration. Every gazing eye

  Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,

  The long procession and the gorgeous train,

  Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems.

  And their rich plumes high waving to the air, 106

  Heedless.

  The consecrated dome they reach,

  Rear’d to St. Katharine’s holy memory

  Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,

  His raised lip kindled with a savage smile, 110

  In such deep fury bade the tenter’d wheel

  Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face

  Of the hard executioner relax’d

  With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood

  Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn’d 115

  Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety

  Beam’d in that patient look. Nor vain her trust,

  For lo! the Angel of the LORD descends

  And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!

  One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast, 120

  Then bow’d her to the sword of martyrdom.

  Her eye averting from the pictured tale,

  The delegated damsel knelt and pour’d

  To Heaven her earnest prayer.

  A trophied tomb

  Stood near the altar where some warrior slept 125

  The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone

  And rude-ensculptured effigy o’erlaid

  The sepulchre. In silent wonderment

  The expectant multitude with eager eye

  Gaze, listening as the mattock’s heavy stroke 130

  Invades the tomb’s repose: the heavy stroke

  Sounds hollow; over the high-vaulted roof

  Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day

  Dawns on the grave’s long night, the slant sunbeam

  Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm, 135

  The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.

  A sound of awe-repress’d astonishment

  Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid

  Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw,

  Self-fitted to her form; on her helm’d head 140

  The white plumes nod, majestically slow;

  She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,

  Gleaming portentous light.

  The wondering crowd

  Raise their loud shout of transport. “God of Heaven,”

  The Maid exclaim’d, “Father all merciful! 145

  Devoted to whose holy will, I wield

  The sword of vengeance; go before our host Î

  All-just avenger of the innocent,

  Be thou our Champion Î God of Peace, preserve

  Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms.” 150

  She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd

  Still listen’d; a brief while throughout the dome

  Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst

  Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn,

  “Thee LORD we praise, our GOD!” the throng

  without.

  Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy, 156

  And thundering transport peals along the heaven.

  As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass’d,

  He who from Orleans on the yesternight 159

  Demanded succour, clasp’d with warmth her hand,

  And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim’d,

  “Ill-omen’d Maid! victim of thine own worth,

  Devoted for this king-curst realm of France,

  Ill-omen’d Maid, I pity thee!” so saying,

  He turn’d into the crowd. At his strange words

  Disturb’d, the warlike Virgin pass’d along, 166

  And much revolving in her troubled mind,

  Retrod the court.

  And now the horn announced

  The ready banquet; they partook the feast,

  Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed 170

  Their hands, and seated at the board again

  Enjoy’d the bowl, or scented high with spice,

  Or flavour’d with the fragrant summer fruit,

  Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.

  Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung

  Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight 176

  That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth

  Of Cornwall underneath whose maiden sword

  The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck

  The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave,

  Who died beneath a brother’s erring arm. 181

  Ye have not perish’d, Chiefs of Carduel!

  The songs of earlier years embalm your fame;

  And haply yet some Poet shall arise,

  Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe 185

  The immortal garland for himself and you.

  The harp still rung beneath the high-arch’d roof,

  And listening eager to the favourite lay,

  The guests sat silent, when into the hall

  The Messenger from that besieged town, 190

  Re-enter’d. “It is pleasant, King of France,”

  Said he, “to sit and hear the harper’s song;

  Far other music hear the men of Orleans!

  Famine is there; and there the imploring cry

  Of Hunger ceases not.”

  “Insolent man!” 195

  Exclaim’d the Monarch, “ cease to interrupt

  Our hour of festival; it is not thine

  To instruct me in my duty.”

  Of reproof

  Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, 199

  “Why harpest thou of good King Arthur’s fame

  Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love

  That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale

  To pamper and provoke the appetite?

  Such should procure thee worthy recompence!

  Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord, 205

  Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man’s bosom.

  That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,

  This parable would I tell, prophet-like,

  And look at thee and say, ‘Thou art the man!’”

  He said, and with a quick and troubled step 210

  Withdrew. Astonish’d at his daring guise,

  The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile,

  Pondering his words mysterious, till at length

  The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall,

  Charles and the delegated damsel sought 215

  The inner palace. There the gentle Queen

  Awaited them: with her Joan lov’d to pass

  Her intervals of rest; for she had won

  The Virgin’s heart by her mild melancholy,

  The calm and duteous
patience that deplored 220

  A husband’s cold half-love. To her she told

  With what strange words the messenger from Orleans

  Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind;

  For on her ear yet vibrated his voice,

  When lo! again he came, and at the door 225

  Stood scowling round.

  “Why dost thou haunt me thus,”

  The monarch cried, “Is there no place secure

  From thy rude insolence? unmanner’d man!

  I know thee not!”

  “Then learn to know me, Charles!”

  Solemnly he replied; “read well my face, 230

  That thou may’st know it on that dreadful day,

  When at the Throne of God I shall demand

  His justice on thee!” Turning from the King,

  To Agnes as she enter’d, in a tone

  More low, more mournfully severe, he cried, 235

  Dost thou too know me not!”

  She glanced on him,

  And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed

  In the Maid’s bosom.

  “King of France!” he said,

  “She loved me, and by mutual word and will

  We were betroth’d, when, in unhappy hour, 240

  I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight

  Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come

  To tempt her then unspotted purity...

  For pure she was;.. Alas! these courtly robes

  Hide not the indelible stain of infamy! 245

  Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on

  An honourable name, O lost to me,

  And to thyself, for ever, ever lost,

  My poor polluted Agnes!.. Charles, that faith

  Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth 250

  My only hope: thou hast thy wicked will,

  While I the victim of her guilt and thine,

  Though meriting alike from her and thee

  Far other guerdon, bear about with me

  A wound for which this earth affords no balm, 255

  And doubt Heaven’s justice.”

  So he said, and frown’d

  Austere as he who at Mahommed’s door

  Knock’d loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien

  Stricken with terror, all beholders fled.

  Even the prophet almost terrified, 260

  Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew

  That this was the Death-Angel AZRAEL,

  And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt